


every castle has its moat

by bokutoma



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Study, Garreg Mach Officers' Academy (Fire Emblem), Gen, Racism, afro-latino dedue, fodlan sucks, it's not explicit but, wish there was a tag for "why are people like this in canon and it's unaddressed"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29143779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bokutoma/pseuds/bokutoma
Summary: there is a lot dedue has to put up with, until he can't
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	every castle has its moat

**Author's Note:**

> cranked this out in a couple days... i have feelings for you king

Garreg Mach, the pinnacle of education. Dedue stands within its illustrious halls, perhaps the first man of Duscur to do so in decades upon decades. Certainly it hadn’t happened within his lifetime, nor had it in his mother’s or his grandmother’s.

It should be impressive, really. The regent’s advisors had told him how lucky he was when they’d sent him and Dimitri off.

_(Lucky, they’d said, but their tone had implied the opposite.)_

He finds that it is not.

The worst part about this permanent transition he seems to be in, Dedue thinks, is that he had the opportunity to be accepted, but didn’t take it.

( _A thousand little opportunities to denounce Duscur, to be their pet project and proof of his people’s so-called savagery. He knew what they were doing. He could not stomach the idea of complying.)_

But his mind is wandering the way it does when Dimitri takes him to meetings that two children should have no place in. He must order his mind; he must not betray the path his thoughts are taking him down.

Mutinous thoughts toward the other students of Garreg Mach are perfectly acceptable as long as they do not show on his face. He doesn’t need to give them a _reason_ to dislike him. They invent plenty on their own.

Step by step, he puts his tired brain in order like he plants rows of flowers or chops carrots for his favorite stew. 

One: he is no more an average student here than he was an average servant in Fhirdiad. He had harbored a flickering hope that his home would not be as dirt in the mouths of these servants of Seiros, but one step within the gates had quashed it with unparalleled savagery. Whispers followed him even as he kept the perfect amount of distance between him and Dimitri, servile and obedient until the last. 

And he hates every second he spends in deference to something other than himself.

Two: he was not meant for these towering spires, jagged and cruel against the line of the sky. _Barbarian_ is the least of what he has been called, but he cannot help naming these people the same. They’d mark his village as backward and pathetic if they could, but _he’d_ never defaced the land with his own insecurity, so there is that.

He misses the open fields of Duscur more than he can say, and when Dimitri or his advisors find him silent and stoic, half the time it is because he cannot speak for the longing that consumes him, body and soul.

Three: Dimitri tries. He tries harder than any man Dedue has known since that day, the one whose name he still cannot bear to even think. When Felix had called him one cruel word or another this morning, he had snapped back at him, his princely manners abandoned for the defense of his friend.

Probably, he should be grateful, but he doesn’t feel anything but exhaustion.

Four: Dimitri does not try hard enough.

It is not enough to call him friend and then believe the best of people. When others make slyly cutting remarks, Dimitri chooses to take them at face value instead of seeing them for what they are.

It is a little betrayal every time, and for all that he loves his friend, Dedue cannot stand to see him right at this moment.

So he wanders. He still hears the muffled whispers, haphazardly hidden behind pale hands. What does it matter if he hears? Both parties know exactly what is happening without need for pretense.

He thinks some very unkind things right back at them, but they do not bear repeating. 

(He will congratulate himself for his creativity, though. He’s always been a quick study, and the art of name-calling is one he’s managed to perfect as a defensive weapon over the years, at least within his own mind.)

It’s only in the greenhouse that he feels truly himself, at peace without others to invade his peace. *They are allergic to honest work,* he thinks, and for once does not chide himself for the uncharitable thought.

There are no blooms from his country here, but then, that is to be expected. Unlike the people, though, the flowers of Fódlan are close enough.

“Man, what’s got you thinking so hard?”

Years of provocation have taught him not to jump, but he spins around too quickly to pass off as casual as a stranger’s voice assaults his solitude.

Ah, but it is only Claude. He trusts the Alliance heir very little, counts on his honesty even less, but he does not whisper. With a critical eye, Dedue can see there’s some things he’d rather keep hidden as well.

“Do you not come here for quiet contemplation?”

It is not the rudest thing he could have said, but neither is it the kindest. Claude only laughs, unrestrained and free, and Dedue wonders what it’s like to be able to shrug off suspicion and act so unrestrained.

But he is noble, and so he will always have some luxuries that Dedue will not, grudging respect chief among them.

“Wouldn’t that be a bit out of character for me?”

 _No_ , Dedue thinks, but he knows that isn’t a virtue Claude wants spoken aloud. Instead, he says, “What would I know of your character?”

“Probably more than you think.” Claude winks, and this whole exchange is so deeply unfunny that he would sigh if it weren’t clear how little the future duke was enjoying himself as well.

They stand in the greenhouse in silence; where Dedue contemplates the growth of the wildflowers he’d planted the week prior, Claude fidgets, his hands reaching through to pluck petals from dying purple flowers.

He does not know what they are. He knows better than to ask.

It is a terrible solidarity they share, one Dedue wishes they had no need for. Claude looks at him askance, tracks the steadiness with which Dedue holds his gaze... 

And finds what he’s looking for. Dedue will not tell, even if it would make his life easier. He is not one to whisper.

“I’ll leave you to your... ‘quiet contemplation,’” Claude says, walking backwards like he has ultimate faith that nothing will be in his way. Dedue wonders where he learned to fake that confidence. “Even if it’s going to make you look old and wrinkly, the way you’re frowning.”

Dedue does not respond, but he does smile, the feeling of it foreign and terribly strange as he turns back to his flowers.

“You’re a good man, you know,” Claude says, but when Dedue’s head snaps up in surprise, he is gone.

He tries to order his thoughts again as he waters the sprouts his professor had bought from the market, but he is so rattled that he can think of nothing but this: Garreg Mach is not a place he can ever call home, but at least he is not alone.

It’s more than he’s been able to say in years.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/kingblaiddyd)


End file.
